The Keys
by RoaringMice
Summary: Sam isn't feeling well, and someone is messing with his keys


**Title:** The Keys  
**Recipient:** TheYmp, part of SummerGen which is run on Live Journal  
**Rating:** PG-13  
**Warnings:** none  
**Author's note:** takes place late in season two or just after it. Mild spoilers for episode 2.15 Tall Tales  
**Summary:** Sam isn't feeling well, and someone is messing with his keys  
**Prompt:** Every time he turns his back, his keys are gone again

x-x

It had been a long… Scratch that, Sam thought, running a weary hand through his hair. It had been a REALLY long time since he'd had a chance to cook anything. He stared at the ingredients arrayed before him. This had seemed like such a good idea earlier, but now?

Life on the road with his brother, in and out of cheap motel rooms like the "Havarest Motel" or… what was that last one? Ah, yes; the inauspiciously named "Economy Inn" – didn't give much opportunity for cooking, true. So yes, it had been a really long time since he'd had a chance to cook something much beyond throwing canned soup in a pot, or reheating diner leftovers in a microwave, and it had seemed like a good idea. And it really shouldn't be this difficult. He liked to cook. And here, he and Dean were finally in a place with an actual kitchen, including pots and pans and dishes and silverware, and there was a grocery store nearby, and he'd thought it was the perfect opportunity to whip up something decent.

But he was so damn tired. Something was wrong. The problem was… He patted a hand on first one pocket, then another. The problem was, he couldn't find the car keys. And he need the keys… he just couldn't remember why. But something was wrong. There was something he needed to do. He had to find those keys.

Sam moved toward the counter, and there the keys were, between the tomatoes and the open bottle of beer. "There you are," he said, under his breath. His vision swam for a second, then reset, and he gripped the edge of the counter. God, he hadn't even had one beer, how could he be feeling…?

Dean's voice came from behind him. "How's it going over there, Sammy?"

"Fine," Sam muttered, looking again at the beer. He heard his brother move from the bathroom into the bedroom, the smell of soap and shampoo following. Sam waited until he heard the bedroom door close, then looked down at the pots and pans on the stove in front of him, then to the array of ingredients on the counter nearby. He blinked, trying to clear his vision.

Maybe the keys weren't the problem. He rested both hands on the counter, letting his head fall forward. God, all of a sudden he was wiped. Maybe the problem was he was getting sick. But he didn't feel sick; he just felt odd. Sleepy and… odd. Now, what the hell had he been trying to make, anyway?

Sam felt Dean slide up beside him. "I thought you were making burgers," Dean said, waving a hand at the food spread in front of them.

"Burgers," Sam said aloud, suddenly remembering. "That's right." Dean liked burgers, and Sam had been in the middle of making them (while maybe sneaking in some vegetables for himself) when he'd felt like there was something he needed to check. Something important. What the hell was it? He lifted his head and turned toward Dean, taking in his brother's wet hair. "You took a shower?" he asked, as Dean tugged a flannel shirt on over a tee.

Dean's expression went from teasing to mild confusion. "I did," he said slowly, tilting his head a bit in that way he had when he was trying to figure out what was going on. "I told you that before I went in." He continued to look at Sam, seeming puzzled. "You okay?" Dean asked.

"Yeah," Sam said. "I just need…" He started looking around the kitchen. "Did you see the keys? I need them so I can check…" He stepped toward the couch, stumbling slightly as he moved. "Woah." The room seemed to shift slightly around him, and he felt Dean's hand on his arm, steadying him. "I don't feel so great."

"I can tell," Dean said, still not letting go of Sam's arm. "Let's sit you down."

"I keep losing the keys." Sam looked at his brother. "Every time I turn my back, they're gone," he said.

"Okay," Dean replied cautiously, guiding Sam by the arm into the living room area. "I don't think you should be going anywhere right now, other than the couch."

"Why not?" Sam asked, letting Dean lead him to the sofa. If he needed the keys, it must be because he was going somewhere. The highway was right there outside the hotel, it wouldn't be far, he didn't really need the keys; if he was going someplace, maybe he could just walk. But there was some reason he needed those keys. It wasn't that he was leaving. It was something else. Sam sank down onto the couch and closed his eyes, exhausted. He raised his feet, intending to prop them on the coffee table in front of him, but missed, hitting the floor with a thump. He lowered his voice to a whisper. "I think it's that damn trickster. He keeps moving my keys, and then there's the burgers, which I forgot, and now he moved the coffee table…"

"Trickster?" Dean asked.

"Yeah, the guy at the college; you remember?"

"We took care of that trickster," Dean said.

Sam shrugged. "I still think it's him." He opened his eyes, then raised a hand to shield them against the glare. "Why's it so bright in here?"

"Jesus, Sam," Dean said, propping himself on the arm at the other end of the couch. "How much of that stuff did you drink?"

"Not even half a bottle," Sam said, trying to turn backwards to stare at the bottle accusingly, but failing and instead sliding back down into the couch. "I feel weird."

"No kidding." Dean stood and moved toward the counter. Sam could hear him pick something up – probably the beer bottle – then place it back down on the counter.

"This was sealed when you opened it, right?"

"Right," Sam said around a yawn, eyes falling shut.

"Did you have anything else to eat or drink tonight?"

"Nope," Sam mumbled.

He felt Dean's hand on his forehead and heard a murmured, "You don't seem to have a fever," as he fell soundly asleep.

x-x

"Yeah, I don't know, Bobby; Sam's sick or something," Dean said into the bedroom phone, keeping his voice down so Sam wouldn't hear it through the door. Although when he'd last checked, Sam had been so conked out that Dean probably could have stood in front of him, belting "Living on a Prayer" in his best Bon Jovi imitation without waking him, so keeping is voice down probably didn't matter.

Dean paced the floor between the bed and the door. "I think we might need a couple days before we can get up there." He thought he heard something from the living room, and was about to open the door when Bobby said something that he missed. "Sorry, say again?" Dean said.

"Are you sure Sam's sick?" Bobby asked, voice coming clear and firm. "It's not any sort of hoodoo or whatever like that, or something related to those visions he's been having?"

"I don't think so," Dean said, running through the symptoms with Bobby. The more he talked, the more it did seem like some sort of virus. Although with Sam, he could never be entirely sure what was going on. The kid was a disaster magnet sometimes. Not that this was necessarily something supernatural – could just as well be a virus – but knowing their luck, it was better to be sure, so getting Bobby on the case early was probably for the best. "Mind looking through your stuff, seeing if anything jumps out at you that might be related?" Dean said as he cracked the door open, trying to catch sight of Sam on the couch.

When he saw the couch but no Sam, he threw out a hasty, "Sorry, got to go." He shoved the cellphone into his pocket and pushed the door fully open. The couch was empty, the door to the motel room open to the dark parking lot beyond. "Seriously?" Dean said in frustration. Someone up there hated him, or hated Sam, because no matter what they did, they didn't seem to be able to catch a break.

Dean was out the door like a shot. He stuttered to a stop in the middle of the lot, scanning side to side, and he almost missed it – there, motion. Looking closer, he saw that it was… yes, that was Sam, and he was leaving the parking lot and heading for the highway. "Damn it," he muttered, then sped through the lot, past the Impala, past parked cars, then through the grass. He vaulted the roadside barrier and caught him. He caught him, a second before Sam would have stepped out into the stream of highway traffic. Grabbed at the back of Sam's flannel shirt and pulled him back hard, which succeeded in having Sam crash down onto the grass in a heap. Dean turned him so that Sam was lying on his back, then noticed that his brother had his eyes half open and was muttering something. Which couldn't be good, but at the same time, this wasn't like one of his seizures; Dean wasn't sure it was that. So what the hell was it?

A horn blared from far too close, lights speeding by, and Dean dragged Sam further back from the road. "Come on, Sammy," Dean said softly, shaking his brother by the shoulder, then tapping it firmly. They couldn't stay there, and Sam was way too big for Dean to haul him all the way back to their room. "Sam," he said more firmly, giving Sam a firm tap on the sole of his foot.

Sam's eyes blinked, and after a moment, his gaze focused on Dean. "Where...? What's going on?"

"You okay?" Dean asked, exhaling his tension, and letting himself fall back to a seat on the grass beside his brother.

Sam nodded, looking around, making to sit up.

Dean asked, "vision?"

Sam's brow crinkled, and Dean helped him to sit all the way up. "No, I don't..." Sam yawned massively. "…think so. I'm just looking for the keys," he added, looking around himself.

Dean peered carefully at Sam. Some of the post-seizure signs were there – the tiredness, the confusion. But Sam wasn't showing his typical signs of one of his headaches, and normally, Sam remembered his visions, even if he didn't want to talk about them. So this was something else, maybe. He reached out and felt Sam's forehead – and there it was, the warmth of a fever.

Dean stood and held a hand out to Sam. "Let's get you back to the room."

x-x

Sam sat on the edge of the grass, staring beyond it at the cars flashing past on the highway, sunlight shining on their windshields and making him look away. Still too bright. He pulled absently at one of the blades of grass below him. Dean had told him what happened. He'd sleepwalked or something, and nearly died waltzing out into traffic. And yet right now, he felt fine, mostly. They'd gone back to the room, he'd crashed for a good nine hours, woken up and felt fine; maybe more than fine. He felt great. He hadn't felt this rested in forever.

He knew Dean had likely stayed up all night. Sam'd left him zonked out on the couch, tv a soft murmur in the background, and come out here, to the scene of the crime, as it were, to see if he could piece things together. Best he could remember, he's been making dinner, and then somehow ended up on the side of the highway, Dean beside him looking freaked.

Apparently understandably, from what Dean had told him on their walk back to the room. Sam didn't remember much beyond that.

He should go back. Dean would be pissed if he found him missing again. Dean always got pissed when he was worried. And maybe he himself should be worried, too. After all, he was sitting on the side of the road. Maybe that wasn't entirely normal. He felt like he was supposed to be looking for something. The keys, right. To the Impala. Something about the Impala…

Sam was just about to move when he felt someone sit down beside him. He turned, and found that next to him was that janitor from the university they'd been to a while ago – the trickster guy. Except this time, the guy wasn't dressed like a janitor. And this time, the guy wasn't dead.

Before Sam could say anything, the trickster said, "I found your keys," holding out a hand. Sure enough, there were the keys.

"Oh." Sam found himself reaching out to take them. "Thanks," he heard himself saying. He wrapped his fingers around the keys, and –

Sam felt a hand shaking his shoulder. He opened his eyes to see Dean's concerned frown.

"Who you talking to?" Dean said.

"What?" Sam looked around frantically. He was in bed, in their motel room. He could see the window – it was dark out, still, or again. It had just been daylight. He'd been outside. He'd –

"…Saying something," Dean said, sitting on the side of the bed.

"What the hell?" Sam managed. He pushed himself to sitting and roughed a hand through his hair.

"You were having a dream, I think," Dean said. "You've been sick; sleeping it off." Dean nodded toward the nightstand. "Got you some water, and some ibuprofen."

"Right," Sam said, taking the pills, and drinking some of the water. "Thanks. How long was I out?"

"A good four hours," Dean said. "You should get some more sleep."

Sam peered at Dean. "There's something I need to check first." He paused a moment, trying to remember what that thing was; then sank back down into the pillows. "I dreamed about that trickster, you remember? The janitor?"

Dean nodded. "You've got a fever. It might be messing with your dreams."

"Yeah, I suppose," Sam admitted. Sam pulled at the blanket, then, feeling something in the fabric, raised a hand and stared down at it, his stomach dropping. The keys were there in his hand. The keys he'd just taken from the trickster. Sam stared at them in shock. "Dean," he said, alarm in his voice. "There's something about…" He closed his eyes and shook his head, the thought leaving faster than he could catch it.

"It's all right, Sammy," Dean said from nearby. Sam felt Dean take the keys, heard the noise of their metal as they were placed on the nightstand. "Get some more sleep, we'll figure it out in the morning."

x-x

Dean shut the door from the bedroom, crumpling to a seat on the couch and flicking on the tv to something mindless. Sam's fever wasn't getting any higher, but it wasn't getting any lower, either. Maybe the ibuprofen would help, now that Sam had been awake for long enough to take it.

Sam had never been good at being sick, so it was no real shock that he was dreaming of things like the trickster, or acting the way he was. Illnesses that Dean threw off like they were nothing, in turn tended to throw Sam for a loop. And this time, Sam was loopy as all hell. Between the trickster dreams and Sam's new-found obsession with the keys of the Impala, never mind his stroll along the highway – this illness was hitting him but good.

And it probably was just a garden variety illness. Bobby had called back an hour or so ago, having found nothing supernatural or otherwise that might cause this. Just as well; they'd had enough of that crap recently. Made a normal, everyday illness seem refreshing in comparison. So long as Sam recovered quickly, that is. And so long as Sam didn't give whatever he had to him, Dean thought as his eyes drifted shut.

x-x

Daytime. Cars. Grass. Exhaust. Sam was by the side of road again. Heart pounding in his chest, Sam turned to look fully at the man he knew would be beside him. "What do you want?"

"It's not what I want," the trickster said. He ran both hands through his blonde hair, then smoothed down his shirt. He then pulled both cuffs, one after the other. "Sorry, I ended up coming here in a hurry, didn't have time to get ready."

"Are you doing this?" Sam asked in frustration.

"Doing what?" the trickster asked, waving around them at the highway and cars. "I'm not really here. This is actually all you, Sam." He looked at Sam carefully, considering. "You're missing something. What is it you're not seeing?"

"What?" Sam said.

The trickster moved his arm expansively, taking in the scene before them.

Sam sighed, deciding to play along for now. He looked to where the trickster had indicated. Highway. Cars. Cars. More cars. More… wait. The cars. They were all –

"Impalas," the trickster whispered from beside him. "Which is odd, if you think about it. Maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something."

That's right – that's what was missing. He'd been trying to go out to check the damn Impala. There was something – something was wrong with the car. He'd had a sudden flash of that something back in the motel room, back when he was cooking. And maybe Dean was right – maybe he was just sick and imagining things, but he'd learned that it was better not to ignore this kind of stuff. Even fever dreams sometimes had elements of truth to them. Better to check it out and be proven wrong than to let it go and have the whole damn world collapse in a heap around you. So, focus, Sam, he thought deliberately. First, wake up. Second, keys. Third, car. Those three things. Wake up, keys, car. Wake up, keys, car. Sam closed his eyes, repeating this mantra. He said the first aloud, hoping that might help. "Wake. Up."

Sam opened his eyes again. Sure enough, he was back in the motel room, in bed, right where he had been. Good. Wake up – okay, he'd done that. What was next? That's right – keys. He pushed off the blankets and sat, ignoring the dizziness that threatened to overcome him. He looked to the nightstand – the keys were still there, where Dean had left them. Also good. He grabbed them, managing to knock over the water glass with a clatter and a splash as he did so. Pushing himself to standing, he took an unsteady step forward, then another. The door really wasn't that far. He could totally do this. Wake up, keys, car. He'd already done the first two. Now just the third. He reached for the door, missing the knob on the first attempt, catching it on the second. He turned the knob, opened the door, then propped himself on the doorframe. Right. Wake up. Keys. Car. He'd managed to wake up. The keys, he had. Car was next.

He was stumbling toward the exterior door when he heard a rough voice from nearby. "Where do you think you're going?" It was then that he realized that the flickering light in the dark room was the tv, and the lump on the couch was Dean.

"Dean, where's your car?"

Dean stood, and in a firm voice, said, "You're not going anywhere. You're sick." Dean started to walk toward Sam, not quite a run, but not exactly a saunter, either.

Sam nodded, then shook his head. "Nah, I don't want to go anywhere, that's not it." He felt Dean's hand on his arm, and pulled away. "That's not it. There's something about the car. Something we need to check." He grabbed Dean's shirt sleeve and pulled. "Come on."

x-x

One thing Dean had learned over all these years was, no matter how odd the strange guy was acting, it could be a good idea to pay attention to what he was saying. That this time, the strange guy was Sam made it all the more likely that something really was going on that needed paying attention to. So when Sam had pulled his arm and told him something was up with the Impala, Dean listened. Sure, Sam was acting weird, and sure, he was feverish – which was probably causing at least some of the weirdness. But that didn't mean that Sam wasn't on to something.

Dean followed closely behind Sam, close enough that if his brother stumbled, he'd be there to catch him. When Sam hesitated in the parking lot, Dean pointed to the Impala, parked just a few feet away. Sam moved toward it, then stopped. He stood there, eyes closed, breathing heavily, face flushed. "It's here," Sam said softly. "There's something…" Sam opened his eyes, took two steps toward the back of the car, then sat in a heap on the cement, staring at the back lower quarter panel.

Dean squatted next to him. "You okay?"

Sam nodded, then indicated the car with a raised hand. "There."

Dean let his eyes go to what Sam was pointing at. Sure enough, in the road dust on the lower back quarter panel, small enough that you wouldn't see it unless you were looking, there was a sigil. Someone had drawn a damn sigil on his baby. He reached out a hand to wipe it away, only to be stopped by Sam's hand on his wrist.

"No. I need some paper, pencil. Got to draw it first, find out what it is, maybe who did it."

Dean slid his cellphone from his pocket. "I could just take a picture –"

"No," Sam said, interrupting him. He turned his head to the side so he could peer at Dean through his sweaty bangs. "Might be a bad idea. At least with the paper, we can burn it after. Not sure deleting a photo would have quite the same effect."

Leaving Sam there on the ground, Dean stood and went back into the motel room, taking the tiny, free-with-the-room pad and pen from the kitchen counter, and bringing it back to Sam. He slid the items into Sam's hands, and Sam sat there a moment, staring down at them.  
"You wanted to draw the sigil," Dean said softly.

"Right," Sam said, nodding. He raised his head slowly, leaning forward to see the symbol more clearly. He spent a few moments drawing it, then wiped it away firmly with one hand. Which he then proceeded to wipe across his sweaty forehead, leaving a trail of dirt. He then reached out and drew another symbol over where the sigil had been, tracing it with a finger. "For luck," he whispered, peering up at Dean.

"You're a mess," Dean said. He reached down and pulled Sam to his feet. "Give me the drawing. I'll do the research this time." When Sam made to object, Dean added, "I can get Bobby on it as well. But you're going to bed."

Dean did let Sam go into the bathroom alone; he wouldn't go that far – but he hovered nearby, just in case. When Sam came out, he looked like he'd managed to clean himself up some, or at least enough to have gotten the dirt off his forehead. Dean bundled Sam into bed, taking the keys to the car and putting them in his own pocket for safe keeping.

This time, Dean kept the door from the living room to the bedroom cracked open and the lights in the living room on, just in case.

x-x

The next time Sam woke up, he felt so much better that he looked around the room, anchoring himself in place to make sure he wasn't on the side of the road with the trickster again. Secure in the fact that he was in the motel's bedroom, he pushed aside the covers and headed for the living room. And there was Dean, of course, on the living room couch with the laptop open beside him, the tv on again, or still. Time had obviously passed – Sam wasn't sure how much, but the sun was coming through the window over the sink, so he'd slept through the rest of the night.

"You look better," Dean said, gaze clearly evaluating.

Sam nodded. "Do you ever sleep?" he said in reply, moving to the kitchen to get himself some water.

"When you're sick?" Dean shrugged. "Not so much."

"You can probably get some sleep now," Sam said, filling a glass. "I can take over the research."

"No need," Dean said with a smirk. "I figured it out."

"You did?" Sam replied, nearly choking on his water.

Dean shifted uncomfortably on the couch. "Well, me and Bobby, anyway."

Sam chuckled, giving his brother a break. Dean was actually way better at research than Dean would ever give himself credit for, but Sam knew. "So, what did you find out?" he asked, leaning back on the counter behind him.

"Seriously bad mojo," Dean said. "Getting in the car would have been a very bad idea." Dean stood and went to the fridge, opening a beer for himself and taking a swig. "Strong enough that I wonder if it wasn't part of what was making you sick."

"But not you?" Sam asked. Dean hadn't seemed to be effected at all.

Dean shrugged. "Maybe has something to do with why you have the visions and I don't." Dean moved back to the couch and Sam followed, slumping down onto the cushions. He was feeling better, but still felt like he needed to catch up on lost sleep. But normal catching-up-on-sleep, not the strange type of tiredness he'd been having.

"How'd you know about the sigil?" Dean asked.

Sam found himself too busy yawning to reply so he shrugged, knowing that Dean probably thought the same thing he did – that it was somehow related to the sickness, or to his visions, or to some weird combo of both. "Getting sick messed me up, though."

"You managed to figure it out," Dean said.

"Feels like it took about all I had to do it," Sam said. He felt tiredness overcoming him again, but this was different – just his body's way of recovering, so he let his eyes drift shut. He felt Dean shift on the couch, then stand. Then a blanket being placed over him. "Thanks," Sam said quietly.

Dean's voice came from above him. "You all right?"

"Yeah, I'm just tired. But normal tired, not…" he interrupted himself with another yawn.

"Good."

Sam felt Dean settle back onto the couch beside him. After a few minutes, he heard Dean say something, almost so soft he missed it. "Good to have you back." And at that Sam smiled, and let himself drift back to sleep.

x-x

The End

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